I.
If we could be quiet in the small spaces,
maybe they would make excuses for us.
Our bodies, forgiven only once in a while.
We look in the mirror, see dualities of ourselves
and ask them to break. I like the glass between us.

II.
My fingers turn purple in the cold. I think of it
as an invited bruise. Your lips stay blue in the
pool, call it summer. We have learned to be apart
from each other. I haven’t touched you since the time
you said goodbye to me, my hands in yours
through the car window. I watch you go,
feel the pull start again.

III.
I water the plants when I don’t forget.
Some have drunk up the sun, the roses
crumple before they can even bloom.
I think about the thing inside me.
Any soft organ, ready to break.

IV.
We would like to fall apart. Every other day,
we become too tired to hold our heads up.
I can’t fathom you other than how I have
reached for you. Bodies, punctuated by
night, by something beyond an end.